An Apostle of Gloom by John Creasey Page A

“You’ll only make it worse for yourself if you don’t.”
    â€œKeep—keep them out!” gasped Joe. “Don’t let them come in.” He pointed the gun towards the door and his finger was unsteady on the trigger. After a pause a heavy blow splintered two of the door panels, the sharp point of a pick showed; it was wrenched away, then used again. By levering the pick, a hole was made. A hand poked through and groped about for the bolt.
    Leech fired at the hand.
    He missed by a foot; the bullet struck the wall on the side of the door but the hand was not withdrawn. The steadiness with which its owner sought for the bolt was an object lesson. Mark stepped swiftly to Leech and pushed his arm aside.
    â€œDo you want to be charged with murder?” he snapped.
    â€œLeave me alone!” Still holding the gun, Leech jumped away from him and fired again. He scored a glancing hit and blood welled on the man’s finger but the bolt was pulled back and the door flung open. A man strode in, small, neat and flashily dressed. His dark, wavy hair was glistening with brilliantine, his narrow-featured face, handsome after a fashion, was twisted contemptuously. For an appreciable time he stood looking at Leech, who held the gun in trembling fingers but did not fire again. He looked too frightened to take any action, his teeth were knocking together like castanets.
    â€œSo you thought you’d keep me out,” the newcomer said, harshly. His voice was cold and metallic. He strode across the room, a swagger in every step, the padded shoulders of his suit swaying. Clay reared up against the wall and stared at him, terrified. Leech drew in a shuddering breath and levelled the gun but the newcomer brushed it away contemptuously, as he held up his hand, from which the blood was streaming. “That’s something else I owe you, Leech.” He struck the bookmaker across the face and the blood from his wounded finger splashed into Leech’s eyes and dripped on his pyjama jacket.
    The pandemonium downstairs was increasing. A crowd had gathered outside and Mark thought there were several brawls in progress; the police would surely arrive before very long. He stepped towards the newcomer, whom he assumed to be ‘Masher’ Malone, and said calmly: “Do you have to do this?”
    Malone tinned and looked at him, dark eyes smouldering.
    â€œWho’re you?” he demanded.
    â€œNot a friend of Joe’s,” said Lessing, “and—”
    â€œIt’s a lie, it’s a lie!” screeched Joe. “He said he could put you inside, Masher; he said he knew you and could put you inside! That’s what he said!” He pointed a quivering finger at Mark, who grew suddenly aware of the menace in Malone’s smouldering eyes. He knew that, true to his nature, Leech had seen a chance of buying safety with information. The snide went on shouting until Malone shot out a hand and struck him across the lips. Although he still held the gun, Leech made no attempt to use it. He backed against the wall, gasping and slobbering.
    â€œIs that true?” Malone demanded.
    â€œDo you often believe him?” countered Mark.
    â€œDon’t try to be funny.” Malone suddenly shot out his hand. Apparently he expected Mark to be as hypnotised as Leech; certainly he did not expect Mark’s quick evasive action, nor the clenched fist which knocked his hand aside. He did not change his expression, nor did he strike out again.
    â€œListen to me,” said Mark, feeling anxious, “I came to see Leech on private business. He was frightened out of his wits by you. I told him I could put you inside to make him give me some information. Take it or leave it.” He spoke with praiseworthy nonchalance.
    Leech moaned: “It’s a lie, Masher, he come to ask me about you, wanted to know more about you, said he could—”
    From the landing there came a sharp report.